


These Things Happen

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [36]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Anxiety, M/M, Moving In Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 10:03:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14788424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: “I genuinely don’t understand you.”“Do you have to? I don’t remember that being a roommate requirement. Was that in the lease? Oh, shit. I missed that paragraph.”





	These Things Happen

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: There is no beauty without some strangeness + domestic  
> Prompt from this [generator](http://colormayfade.tumblr.com/generator).

“I genuinely don’t understand you.”

“Do you have to? I don’t remember that being a roommate requirement. Was that in the lease? Oh, shit. I missed that paragraph.”

Seb picks up a throw pillow, lets it live up to its name. “Oh, I see how it is. We’re roommates now, is that it?”

Chris snatches the thing out the air and hugs it to his chest. “Let’s see: we live in the same house, we split the rent, the utilities are in both our names. Yeah, I think that means we’re roommates.” He gives Seb a smirk. “Among other things.”

There are boxes everywhere and the furniture’s all askew and Seb’s been sweating all day and not in a fun way and if it were anyone else but Evans, he’d be tempted to get snappy but see, Chris has this superpower when it comes to petty disagreements: the ability to ignore them. If it’s something important, something meaningful, like whether they should tell anybody they’re dating or if Seb should back out of that movie now that the director’s proven himself to be a such a dick, then yeah, Chris can go 15 rounds. Those aren’t arguments, anyway; they’re discussions. Heated ones that sometimes involve raised voices (Seb) or diagrams drawn on the back of discarded scripts (Chris), but stuff that needs to get hammered out.

But anything Chris decides isn’t weighty, that doesn’t have Potentially Consequential Effects on their lives, he won’t engage with. Where should the sofa go? He doesn’t care. Do their dish towels need to match? Whatever. Should they call the cops on this papperazo or that? Eh, forget it, Seb; don’t let those assholes ruin your day. It’s endearing, this quality, except when it isn’t, except when Seb is riled up and anxious and desperate for a way to break it and sometimes nothing does that like a good, pointless fight.

“Still,” Seb says, “I don’t know that I’d lead that list with ‘roommate,’ Evans.”

Chris’s eyebrows go up. “Oh, I’m back to ‘Evans,’ huh?”

“You are.”

“Can I ask why?”

Seb turns his back, reaches for the nearest sealed box. It’s not even in the right room, damn it; it clearly says  _ Seb bedroom (nightstand) _ in big, Sharpied letters on the side. “No reason. Just a slip of the tongue.”

“Uh huh.”

He pretends he doesn’t hear Chris coming, doesn’t anticipate the broad arms around his back, the solid squeeze, the soft smack of a kiss on the side of his neck. “You freaking out on me, Sebby? It’s ok if you are. It’s understandable. It’s been a hell of a day.”

“A little, I guess. Maybe.”

Another kiss, higher this time. “Moving always sucks. Always. It’s like a natural law of the universe or something.”

“Yeah, well. You seem fine.”

“Mmmm. More than fine, I hope,” Chris says in a ridiculously deep voice, because he’s an idiot and cheap innuendo rarely fails to make Sebastian laugh. Which he does now, a little. Enough to get his hands off the box and up onto Chris’ arms.

“I mean,” he says, “does this not freak you out in the slightest? Like, at all? Because you seem frighteningly calm about it.”

“Do I?”

“Uh, yeah. Like, they dropped your box of kitchen stuff down the stairs and you didn’t even blink.”

Chris nuzzles his cheek. “Wasn’t their fault. Stuff like that happens.”

“And when the movers went to the wrong building, that was ok?”

“No, that was not ok. But they fixed it. They figured it out.”

Seb tilts his head, plants one on Chris’s chin. “And the photog showing up downstairs. That was cool with you, too?”

“Yeah, no. It was not. But the doorman did an awesome job of putting the fear of god in the guy. I doubt he’ll be back. Today, anyway. But you might want to put on matching socks the next time you go to Starbucks. Unless you want the world to learn that your sartorial splendor requires like, a whole team of people. And somebody to talk you out of those godawful ladybug socks. And by talk you out of, I mean hide and/or burn with fire.”

Chris is warm; sweaty, yeah, and he smells like dust and cardboard, but that smile goes a long way, as does the snug turn of his hips against Sebastian’s ass, and he has to fight a little to remember what they’re talking about.

“People are gonna know, though,” Seb says. “That we live together.”

“Yeah." Chris’s mouth finds his for a second. "We knew we couldn’t keep this a secret, right? I mean, I thought we’d make it past day 1, but hey. These things happen.”

“So what are we gonna say? That we’re roommates? Some Felix and Oscar-type shit?”

Chris laughs, the full-body one that makes Seb want to curl into him. “Babe, I don’t know if you’ve watched it lately, but Felix and Oscar were seriously queer. Maybe not the best example to go with if you wanna lead hard on the whole roommates thing here.”

Seb turns, shifts around in Chris’s arms until they’re face to face, flush. “Or maybe,” he says, working his fingers under Chris’s t-shirt, up the acres of hot skin on his back, “it’s exactly the right one.”


End file.
